“So, Antonella,” Cesare asked. “What now?”
The housekeeper scowled. “What do you think, cousin? It’s your mewling son. He’s crying again.”
“Well? He’s a baby, isn’t he? That’s what they do.”
She bristled. “And what do you expect me to do about it—a maiden lady with no prior acquaintance with any infant whatsoever, not even one?”
“Don’t ask me. You know full well that I was an only child.”
“As was I,” reflected Dr. Pellicola a little dreamily. “No, wait. There was a sister, but she ate something in the garden and died. Belladonna, I believe it was. I think I put her up to it, but, as I was only four at the time, I was forgiven. Even then I was fascinated by medicinal herbs!”
Cesare laid a moist hand on mine. “Perhaps you know why babies cry, dear little Mari. You come from a large family.”
I dragged my hand out from under his clammy one. I couldn’t believe how stupid they all were—not knowing why babies cry. “They cry because they’re hungry. Or maybe they want to be rocked. Or because they’ve soiled themselves and need changing. Does he smell bad?”
Antonella sniffed. “He always stinks. However, I don’t think he stinks any worse than usual.”
“Then try feeding him.”
“There you go,” said Cesare heartily. “Hand him over to that wet nurse…whatever her name is. That’s why we’ve hired her, after all. To feed the baby.”
Antonella sounded faintly triumphant. “Her name is Flora and her contract is for six feedings a day. No more. No less. She has fulfilled the terms of her contract for today and so she’s left.”
“Wah-wah-wah!” wailed the baby. “Wah!” One thing you could say for that first little Cico—he had a pair of lungs on him.
I winced. “Surely you have a pap boat!”
“Well, yes,” said Antonella, her nose wrinkling. “But you can’t expect me to feed him. In the first place, I don’t know how. In the second place, he is neither my concern nor my responsibility.” She glared at Cesare. “I told you that from the outset, cousin. I am a housekeeper, not a nanny.”
I could scarcely believe what a fuss she was making over feeding a baby. Commandeering my meager supply of strength, I struggled up onto my elbows amid the heap of bedclothes and pillows. “Bring him to me and I shall feed him.”
“But you are unwell, my dearest!” Cesare was all solicitude. “Do you think you are strong enough for such an undertaking?”
“Strong enough to hold a baby? I should think so! Just prop me up on some pillows, will you?”
Cesare dove for the bed with more zeal than I had anticipated, pried me off the mattress and crammed pillows behind my back. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!” I snapped, for it seemed to me that, in the process of propping me up, he had managed to touch me distinctly more than was necessary.
Pellicola turned to the housekeeper. “Please bring Signorina Umbellino the baby and the required contrivance and stop causing so much trouble.”
Antonella’s face flushed scarlet and she glowered fiercely at the doctor, before turning on her heel and loudly stomping off.
“I see that Antonella is still skittish about entering this room,” Dr. Pellicola said to Cesare.
“She refuses to cross so much as the threshold,” Cesare replied. “It’s most inconvenient.”
The doctor made a clicking noise with his tongue and shook his head. “How many years has it been?”
“Three this March,” replied Cesare.
“Three years since what?” I demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Three years since my mother died,” Cesare replied. “She died here, in this room. Well, it was her bedroom, after all. Antonella was with her at the time. She’s never gotten over it. She swears my mother’s ghost haunts this room, that she has spoken to her, accusing her of dreadful things. So now she refuses to step foot in here. On principle. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?”
“My grandmother’s ghost haunted our house,” I said.
Cesare and Dr. Pellicola thought this was hilarious. They laughed and laughed. Finally, gasping for air and wiping tears from his eyes, Cesare patted my hand. “How charming you are with your primitive unscientific notions! Isn’t she charming, Pellicola?”
“She’s all right,” replied the doctor mildly.
“You mustn’t let poor Antonella spook you,” Cesare advised. “She had a very…complicated relationship with my mother and her death…well, I think it unhinged her just the teensiest bit. Hearing voices. You know.”
“Don’t forget that Antonella’s had you to herself over the last three years,” Pellicola reminded him. “Remember how threatened she was when you brought Concetta home? Doubtless she is disappointed that Signorina Umbellino’s ague turned out not so bad as to be fatal.”
Cesare sighed. “You’re undoubtedly right. But just wait. I’m sure Mari will win her over given time, for who could resist her?”
Antonella returned with the pap boat. Sure enough, she came no farther into the room than the lintel of the door, but instead handed Cesare the contrivance, which he then handed to me. It was by far and away the fanciest pap boat I had ever seen. In Montemonaco these were typically sewn of leather or carved from bone; this was made of majolica. It was a vessel similar in shape to a gravy boat, with a lip at one end that could be inserted into a baby’s mouth. I had used a pap boat to feed orphaned baby goats and occasionally a baby brother if Mama was busy or away. While I was testing the temperature of the pap, the housekeeper withdrew, returning a few moments later with Cico, swaddled to within an inch of his life and shrieking like a banshee. “Here!” She thrust him toward Cesare like a bundle of dirty linen. “Take him!”
“For Heaven’s sake, you’ve got to support his head!” I said. “He’s a baby, not a ham!” The housekeeper took a step backward into the hall, wiping the palms of her hands on her flanks.
“Now I can get to my own work! Finally!” Reaching forward, she seized the doorknob and pulled the door shut just loudly enough to make her point.
I sank back against the pillows and carefully unpeeled a layer of damp blanket from around a very small, very red face, slick with tears and mucus. Through his wrappings I could feel how tiny and shrunken he was—far more so than any of my brothers at his age. I remembered that he had been premature by at least a month. “Don’t worry, little nephew,” I whispered. “We’ll fatten you up.” Taking a corner of blanket, I gently dried his face. Two little eyes peered solemnly back at me. The baby hiccuped, then sneezed, then smiled.
“Look!” Cesare cried. “He smiled! His very first smile!”
“Actually, I am told that babies don’t really smile until about the age of two months,” said Pellicola drily. “It’s probably just gas.”
Cesare did not appear to hear him. He beamed at me; his joy patent. “Cico’s very first smile, Mariuccia, and for you! What do you think of that?” He turned to Pellicola. “What did I tell you? No one can resist her. Not me and certainly not our little Cico! It’s just as I hoped! He will not lack for a mother, for he will have Mariuccia!”
I frowned. “I am his aunt,” I corrected Cesare. “Concetta was his mother.” Dipping my finger into the warm pap, I slid it into Cico’s tiny mouth. He sucked on it eagerly. I could feel the delicate ridges of his hard palate, his toothless gums. And then it struck me, as hard as any blow. This baby was half Concetta’s and now she was gone. Cico might not be of my flesh, but he was of my blood and I would do everything within my power to keep him safe from harm. Emotion overpowered me—some combination of despair and love. Tears welled up in my eyes and began to make their way down my cheeks.
“Do I see tears?” Cesare leaned over me, solicitous. “What is it, sweet girl?” His breath smelled like garlic and cigars.
“Back off! I’m a
ll right. Just thinking about my sister.”
Cesare straightened up. “Her sister!” He turned to Pellicola. “Her dear, departed sister! Is this girl not tender-hearted? Is she not an angel?”
Pellicola sighed. “Really, Bacigalupo, sometimes you are too much even for me.” He picked up a shiny top hat and his doctor’s black bag. “Make sure Antonella does not overburden our patient with the infant’s care for the next little while. The fever has left her weak and she could relapse if overtaxed.” He glanced around. “Well then, I’ll be on my way. Signorina Umbellino, it was a pleasure to meet you.” He gave me a little bow, which I acknowledged with a nod. He left, closing the big oak door behind him.
Cesare produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and, rather rudely I fear, handed it back to him. I was beyond caring. I turned my attention to Cico, who was sucking ardently away on my finger, all the while staring at me with what appeared to be frank adoration. Poor little mite, he looked absolutely starved for love. I hoped that the wet nurse had cuddled him even a little during his feedings; it was clear Antonella would not have deigned to touch him one whit more than absolutely necessary. Babies need to be held; otherwise they will not thrive. I withdrew my finger from his mouth. He wriggled and cooed. Again, the tiny smile. I poured a little pap into the boat, inserted the lip of it into his mouth, and tipped the vessel just enough that he could take in the mixture without it flowing all over his face. In no time at all, he was fast asleep.
I looked up to see Cesare, perched at the end of the bed, staring at me with his big St. Bernard dog eyes. It made my skin crawl.
“What?” I said.
“He likes you.”
“Yes, well, he’s a baby. Babies like people who are kind to them.”
“I like you too.”
I did not care for how that sounded; neither did I like the look on his face—amorous, but also somehow calculating.
“You are my sister’s husband,” I said flatly. “My brother-in-law. I suppose you are all right as those things go.”
“Do you remember that I liked you first?” he asked. “Before your sister?”
“I do,” I replied. “But then you came to your senses.”
“Did I?”
I met his gaze squarely. I have faced off against billy goats more menacing than Cesare Bacigalupo and put them in their place with a swift knee to the chin. “You did. And that’s the last I want to hear of this. Now take Cico and put him in his bassinet. I am tired and need to sleep.” It was true; suddenly I felt exhausted. Cesare bent down to take the baby and, while in position, tried to plant a kiss on the top of my head, an effort I foiled by ducking.
“Very well, then,” he grumbled, straightening up, doubtlessly feeling as foolish as he looked. “Get some sleep, little Mari. Ring the bell if you need anything.”
He left, looking dejected and shut the door behind him. I listened to his footsteps in the hall, then, moments later, to the sound of someone heavily descending stairs.
I glanced about the room. On the wall hung a portrait of a cranky looking woman with a high forehead, pinched expression, and several double chins. Was this Cesare’s mother, the woman who had died in this room and whose haunt this was?
I closed my eyes and tried to feel her presence; in my nonna’s case, you could sense she was there even on those rare occasions she fell silent—strongly to start off with, then, as time wore on, less and less. It was hard to say for sure. In any case, I was not overly concerned. Ghosts only bother those with whom they have had dealings in life; they do not form new relationships. And, besides, the world is crammed with ghosts; they are everywhere. There’s no avoiding them and you are a fool to try.
The living, however…they are another matter.
I sat up and, with some difficulty, pushed the heavy coverlet to one side. I slid to the edge of the bed. It was very high—so high that my toes dangled a few inches above the floor. Carefully I dropped over its side and onto the cold tile. My knees crumpled a little beneath me and a wave of dizziness swept over me. I clung to the bedclothes until the sensation passed. Then, mustering what strength the ague had not sapped from me, I set off across the floor, taking the distance one wobbly step at a time until I finally made it to the door and turned the key, locking the door from the inside.
I was to do this every night in the days to come and a good thing too, for every night after Antonella had finally skulked off to bed, Cesare came scratching at my door like a cat, imploring me to please, please let him in, for he loved me to such an extent that he was plainly dying of it and, seeing that this was the case, how could I be so unkind as to refuse him?
I responded to this by telling him to go away and leave me alone, that I did not love him and never would. This would go on for up to a half an hour some nights and generally ended with me putting a pillow over my head and pretending to be asleep.
By the following morning, I was feeling much better, and as the weather was fine and the sun shining, I asked Antonella if I couldn’t get some air. I was unused to being cooped up for so long and longed to be outside.
The housekeeper muttered and grumbled but sent a boy to consult with Dr. Pellicola. He must have replied in the affirmative, for it was not long afterward that Flora, the bustling, snappish wet nurse, brought me Cico, then, complaining that attending on me was not in her contract, bundled us both up in blankets and deposited us in a curious sort of chair on the balcony. The chair had two blades fitted onto the ends of its legs like the rockers on a cradle. When I told her I had never seen such a marvelous chair, she exclaimed with indignation, “What heathenish backwater do you come from that they don’t have rocking chairs?”
That morning gave me my first real glimpse of Casteldurante, or at any rate, of the piazza onto which the house fronted, and I watched with great interest as black-veiled, bare-footed Poor Clares, whose convent was just one door down, picked their way across the cobblestoned expanse. Men with polished boots and pomaded hair emerged from the narrow streets that converged to form the piazza and checked their gold pocket watches. Now and then, passersby would let their gaze stray my way and catch my eye; some even nodded or raised a hand in brief greeting. I did not know it then, but I was something of a curiosity in Casteldurante—the younger sister of that poor little wife of the eminent manufacturer Cesare Bacigalupo—you know, the pretty girl from the country who had died in childbirth just weeks before. So tragic!
Later, after Flora had helped me back to bed, Antonella stuck her head in the door to see if I needed anything.
“Flora is very cross about having to help me,” I told her. “She says that’s your job, but you refuse come into this bedroom. Why is that?”
She stiffened. “Someone died in this room.”
“For the most part that’s what people do,” I said. “Die in rooms, I mean. I suppose the odd one dies outside. You can’t stop going into a room just because somebody dies in it. You’d have to stay outside all the time if that were the case.”
“It’s not just that someone died in this room,” she said. “It’s that one person in particular did.”
“Cesare’s mother?”
She nodded.
I pointed to the portrait. “Is that her?”
She nodded again.
“What was special about her?”
“She wasn’t special,” Antonella corrected me. “She was particular. Particularly awful!” Then she grinned. It was the first smile I had seen from her; it lit up her face like a candle does a cupped hand, but only for an instant. The next minute she was scowling again. “We didn’t get along.”
“Cesare seems to think you did. He says you’ve never gotten over her death.”
She snorted. “Well, he’s right about that, but not because there was any love lost between us. She was intolerably cruel to me.”
“Why then? I should think you’d be glad to be rid of her.”
“I was. But it’s more complicated than that.”
I pulled up the covers to my chin. “What do you mean?”
Antonella slouched against the lintel, at ease for the moment. “It was first thing on a Monday morning. I was over there at the vanity, brushing out her hair—she had long gray hair that reached to the back of her knees. She was so proud of that hair. Had never cut it.” She shook her head. “A vain, stupid woman. I thought it made her look like a witch, an old, mean witch…that was what she was. At first she complained of tingling and numbness, then of a creeping cold beginning in her toes and fingers and moving inwards. She began to sweat, all the time saying that she was cold, Antonella, so very cold and why was it so dark all of a sudden and could I speak up, she could hardly hear me. I got her to her bed—she was shaking like a leaf and pale! Her eyes were sunken, and their whites looked like hard-boiled eggs that have gone off—slick and thick and white, but also slightly green, you know?”
Antonella glanced at me. I nodded.
“I ran to fetch Cesare and he set out straightaway for Dr. Pellicola. I came back upstairs. I didn’t want to see her. Not then, not ever. But I came back anyway and stood where I am standing now, in the doorway. ‘Antonella!’ (And her voice was so weak; she croaked like a frog.) ‘Antonella, you wretched creature! You ugly girl! I am dying! Come here and comfort me!’ And she held her arms out to me, pleading. I stood like so.” The housekeeper widened her stance, straightened up, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I stood my ground, didn’t budge. ‘Do you not hear me?’ she cried. ‘I am calling for you, you useless creature, you parasite! Come here!’ I shook my head. ‘If you don’t come here right now and comfort me, you shall never be rid of me! I shall haunt you for the rest of your days!’ I turned then and started down the stairs. ‘I know what you have done!’ she shouted after me as the front door opened and Cesare and Dr. Pellicola arrived.
“‘Murderess!’” Antonella paused for a moment¸ then repeated the word, more softly this time, “‘Murderess!’” She fell silent for a moment, then blinked. “And that was the last thing she said to me. To anyone, for that matter. By the time Cesare and Dr. Pellicola had made it up the stairs, she had fallen into a deep swoon from which she never awoke. She died an hour later.”
The Oracle of Cumae Page 11
